by Tamar Myers
Julia watched with a pang of envy. Surely she was just missing her own father. After all, she had not come to the mission field searching for a husband. And certainly not a widower with a child. On the other hand, if it was the Lord’s will—Julia clenched the fingers on her left hand between the folds of her full-circle cotton skirt, as if to shut off this unwelcome train of thoughts.
“Well, this is what we’ve decided,” he said. “You’re to spend the night here with the Doyers. It’s too late now, and too dark, to settle into a strange place.”
It seemed like Henry had the uncanny ability to see right through her. Julia breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was probably ridiculously loud, because both Clementine and her father grinned.
“Okay then. First thing in the morning we’ll take you over to your house and get you settled in. Because it’s late, Cripple can stay here too—but in the kitchen. Believe me when I tell you, I really had to push for this; it’s against the law, you know.”
“It is?”
“Yup, whites and blacks can’t commingle.”
“What about the Mushilele girl, Papa?” Clementine asked, tugging on a lock of her father’s dark curly hair. “Must we cast her out into the wasteland, a howling wilderness, from whence we plucked her?”
Henry kissed his daughter on the cheek. It was every bit as loud as Julia’s sigh of relief had been.
“No, sweetie,” he said. “She’s not going back to whence she was plucked. She’s going to our house—to stay with you, in your room. That way you can translate for her. But only until tomorrow. Then she’s going to board in the girls’ school that Mama started.”
Julia stared in disbelief. “Clementine knows how to speak Bushilele? I thought that missionaries didn’t bother learning it, because it was too difficult and—”
“That’s right,” Henry said. “Everyone speaks Tshiluba as well. But Clemey’s only friends are Bashilele children. Although there are some who would never admit it, she is a great asset to this mission.”
“But a great distraction as well, aren’t I, Papa?”
Father and daughter rubbed noses and giggled. That’s when Julia knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t just homesickness she felt. It was something strangely akin to envy. But could it be? Could she be envious of the affection that a father showered on his motherless daughter?
If so, didn’t that make her disturbed? Or could that possibly mean that she was in love? At the very least, Julia Newton was very confused and had a whole lot of praying to do. She could use some “down-on-her-knees time.”
NINE
When Buakane was a little girl, still allowed to suck when thirsty from her mother’s breasts, a villager brought in a pangolin that he had captured in a snare meant for a very small antelope. The pangolin can best be described as the offspring of an anteater that has mated with a pineapple. But even that description comes nowhere near the truth. A pangolin is covered with bony plates and has the ability to roll itself into a ball so impenetrable that even a lioness will give up on trying to eat it.
“Do you see that animal?” Paddle had asked her daughter. When Buakane began to shake her head, Paddle pulled the girl from the breast. “Speak with words, child.”
“I see no animal, Baba. I see a ball.”
“It is an animal, Buakane, and it is alive.”
“It is not alive, Baba.” Buakane grabbed the breast again, for it was a hot day and her thirst had not been abated.
“Kah!” Paddle marveled at her daughter’s audacity. Surely this was a child for whom fate had much in store. And here was an opportunity to teach Buakane a lesson that might one day save her life. Again she removed her daughter from her shriveling breasts.
“Baba!”
“Buakane, this is indeed an animal, and it is pretending to be a rock—or something else very hard like a rock that cannot be eaten. The man who caught this animal—it is called a pangolin—will have to be very clever if he wants it to open up again. For you see, it is the pangolin’s wish that the hunter will lose interest in him and return him to the bush. Now listen to my words, carefully, daughter. Someday you too may have to act like the pangolin, in order to save your life.”
“Will I have to curl up in a ball, Baba? Like this?” At that Buakane sat beside her mother and closed her eyes tightly. Then she brought her knees up, and her head down, to approximate a ball.
“Yes, little one,” Paddle said. “But you may also have to lie straight, like my bidia stick. The point is, the time might come when you will have to be very, very still, so that whoever has found you will lose interest in you and return you to wherever it is that they have found you. That is what is meant by ‘playing dead.’ ”
“Baba, how will I know when it is time to ‘play dead’?”
“Do not worry, Beautiful One. When the time comes, the spirits of your ancestors will reveal that path to you. Then it is simply up to you to decide if you will follow their guidance.”
Buakane held her head high, for she was very determined for one so young. “Of course I will follow their guidance, Baba. How foolish it would be of me if I did not do so.”
Thus it was that, although Buakane had been badly wounded by the hyenas, when the white man showed up, riding inside the terrible metal beast, Buakane remembered her promise to Paddle and played dead. Although Buakane did not curl up in a ball, as did the pangolin, she willed herself to ignore the throbbing pain in her thigh, and her body became as lifeless as she could command it.
Buakane was no ordinary girl—a fact that Grasshopper Paddle did not let her forget. Ever since the day of the pangolin, her mother made her daughter practice breath control, in the event that she was actually buried alive someday and rescue would not be immediately forthcoming. Paddle also administered to Buakane a variety of subtle but painful punishments, in order to toughen up her daughter and to prevent her from crying out due to pain. After all, the Bashilele were a strong warrior people, and they did not suffer cowards or weaklings—even among their womenfolk.
Although the eyes of the metal beast were blinding with their ferocity, and it roared with the noise of a thousand lions, Buakane forced herself to lie limp upon the white man’s road, her own eyes all but closed. Through the slits that remained open, she could see the hideous face of the white man who bent to scoop her up in his arms. In truth, however, his arms were so much like those of any man.
But the smell of such a creature! Aiyee! There is no describing the putrid smell of a white man. Even after battling the carrion-eating hyenas, and the acrid metallic odor of so much of her own blood, Buakane was sickened by the stench given off by the man from mputu—the faraway place. This man smelled like the bad end of a wet dog, one that has joined you on the sleeping mat, and which you wish to eject.
Buakane was fully conscious when she was placed in the truck. Although she was grateful to have been snatched away from the jaws of the hyenas, she was equally terrified to be in the belly of this monstrous beast, and to discover the presence of two more whites, as well as an African woman not of her tribe.
When they all began conversing in Tshiluba, the local trade language, Buakane nearly cried out in surprise. Surely a white man could not speak an African tongue, even one as backward as Tshiluba. If only Grasshopper Paddle and Bad Odor could hear this for themselves. It was a moment more to be marveled at than had a monkey spoken, for was not a monkey at least from the same forest as a human?
As the evening wore on, the wonders mounted. But through it all—her terror, then her overwhelming awe upon seeing the wonder that was the white man’s dwelling, and finally the pain of the sewing implement—Buakane played dead. She’d once watched a man who’d been mauled by a leopardess receive stitches. The witch doctor had used a bone needle and a filament of palm fiber thread. Nonetheless, the wound had gown septic within a day or two, and within three days’ time, the man was dead. The man had not cried out in pain during his surgery, but he had shed tears. Buakane was determined not to
do the same.
Much to her astonishment, after some mild pricks made adjacent to the wound area, the pain in Buakane’s leg subsided remarkably. By the time the white witch doctor (Buakane suspected that it was a woman) was finished with her task, the girl could feel the sensation of tugging, but no real pain. Still, she feigned death.
Perhaps now that the white witch doctor was finished sewing up her wound, she would put Buakane back in the belly of the metal beast. Perhaps if Buakane stirred, to let the white witch doctor know that she yet lived, the white man with the arms of a person would make the beast carry her back into the bush and disgorge her near her village. If the spirits of Buakane’s ancestors were kind, she would gladly return to submit to her husband, Chief Eagle.
Any amount of suffering at Chief Eagle’s hand was bound to be better than the sort of punishment she had faced thus far this evening for her unspeakably bad behavior. Now if only Baba Grasshopper Paddle and Tatu Bad Odor did not have to likewise pay for her indiscretions.
Thus it was that Buakane’s spirits actually lifted a little when the odoriferous white man—yes, he smelled far worse than her father—picked her up and carried her outside. However, instead of returning her to the metal beast, he strode across a compound of short greens and carried her into another, even more splendid place of residence. Tired and wounded though she was, her mind quickened when she was confronted with the glories that were to be found in this white man’s home.
The incredible thing was that in each room of the white man’s house a miniature sun hovered just below the ceiling. Simply by touching the wall, the white man was able to make this sun rise and set, although it did not change positions in the sky. If either Chief Eagle or his witch doctor could see this magic, they would lay down their bows and arrows and surrender all that they possessed to the white man.
For truly, truly, the conquest of the Congolese had been inevitable. The power of the whites was of a scope so great as to be incalculable. This was the opinion of Buakane, she who married an eagle, but she was just a female, so her ideas mattered not.
Another one of the white man’s glories was a sleeping platform upon which were piled clouds—white clouds, such as one sees in a blue sky after a rain. But it was the mat on this platform that was the real wonder. How could Buakane ever hope to describe the experience of lying on such a thing to her mother? It was like—no—but it might be similar to the sensation of lying on one of those clouds.
Enough of such foolish thoughts. The smelly adult was gone, leaving her alone with the child. What was the plan? Was this the room where he kept his harem of younger wives? Buakane thought she would retch, not only because of his odor, but because of the peculiar things she had heard about white men while working in the manioc plot alongside her mother.
The whites—this was verified by those who had worked for them—cut off the ends of their sons’ penises. Would this not explain the fact that the white man’s manhood was always at least half a hand length shorter than that of a Mushilele warrior? One need only ask a Mushilele who had been conscripted into the army; after all, it was an easy task to cut a peephole into the palm-thatch walls of the Belgian officers’ bath hut. The peephole also answered the question that had long puzzled many in Mushihi Village. The answer, by the way, was yes; the white man, just like the black man, was of a single color, from head to toe.
Buakane shivered as she eased her stress by trying to imagine just what such a hideous figure might actually look like. Would his lubola perhaps be pink? And what about the thatch that grew in the shade?
“Aiyee!” she said softly but still audibly. As for her eyes, they were now clamped tightly shut.
“What is it? Do you dream?” The words had been spoken in her own tongue, Bushilele.
Buakane’s heart pounded, first in fear and then in great excitement. The only other person in the darkened room was the female child—a white girl, a being incapable of learning the difficult Bushilele language.
“Do not pretend that you cannot speak,” the creature said again. “I have been watching you. I have played this game myself before.”
Buakane could not help herself. “What game is that?”
“Ah! The game of playing dead. But not too dead, e? If you had been truly dead, then we would have eaten you.” The white girl made hideous smacking sounds with her mouth and laughed like a troop of juvenile baboons.
“Kah!” Buakane attempted to sit, but the movement pulled on her stitches, causing her to lie back with a soft moan. “So it is true that the white man eats the flesh of my people?”
“Tch,” said the little white. “That is most disgusting. It is only the Bapende tribe—who live next door to you—who have eaten people. I think that now they no longer do, but of this I am not sure.”
“Nor am I.”
Then without warning the white girl performed the magic of turning on the small sun. The room filled with brightness so suddenly that Buakane was sure that she had gone blind.
“Oh, our mother!” she cried, in the fashion of all distressed women. “Our mother, our mother!”
“You will be fine,” the white girl said. “It takes only a little while for your eyes to adjust.”
She was correct. It was as if Buakane had suddenly emerged from a very dark forest and stared directly into the sun. Indeed, now she could see just as clearly as if there were daylight streaming through the windows—well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but only a very small one. At any rate, the white girl was standing next to the wall, and she was smiling. She looked friendly; Buakane could not imagine this girl eating anyone.
“Are you a witch doctor?” Buakane asked.
The girl giggled. “No. But just the same, this is a kind of magic. One that you, too, could learn to perform. Do you wish to try?”
Buakane was but briefly tempted. The stress of the day, the anxiety and agony of the night, all of them had taken their toll. Now she really did wish nothing more than to close her eyes—all the way—and be dead to all thoughts. She wished this even if it meant crossing back to the spirit world.
“Perhaps I could try another time,” Buakane said.
“Yes,” the girl said. “Perhaps.”
However, before she could sleep, Buakane was in need of a favor. “What is your name?” Buakane asked.
“My name is Worthless,” the little one said.
Buakane nodded, for she supposed there was a reason for this name that she would discover in due time. Or perhaps not. For the moment, sleep was all that she cared about—and the urge to relieve herself.
“My name is Buakane. Now, if you please, Worthless, show me the way to the privy hut, that I might make water.”
Worthless bit her lower lip. “Aiyee, Buakane, we do not have a privy hut such as you are used to in the village.”
“Then I will use the tshisuku. Do you know a place that is safe from hyenas?”
Worthless giggled. “Yes, but it is not outside. Buakane, we make water inside our houses.”
“Ka! You are joking! Surely—are you not?” Buakane could tell, however, by the look on Worthless’s face that the white girl was not joking.
“We make excrement in our houses as well,” the child said.
Buakane was suddenly no longer sleepy. “No! This cannot be!” Although in truth, it did explain the white man’s stench.
“Come,” the child named Worthless said as she took Buakane’s hand. “I will show you how it is done.”
Buakane was amazed to discover that the white hand felt just like that of a real person’s. It even possessed miniature fingernails.
“Worthless,” she said, “are you white people really humans? Or are you animals of some higher kind—like the tuyeke that live in caves deep in the forest.”
“What are tuyeke?” Worthless asked.
“I have never seen one,” Buakane confessed, “but those who have say that it is a creature that looks somewhat like a monkey, but mostly like a man. It has a sloping fore
head, no chin, but much hair. It cannot talk—only grunts—yet it walks upright like a man.”
“I am not a kayeke,” Worthless said. “Behold, I can speak quite clearly, and my forehead does not slope.”
She pulled Buakane into another room and again performed the magic of turning on a little sun. When Buakane received her sight again, she saw that Worthless was standing next to a gleaming white mound of salt—or perhaps something equally as precious. Never had Buakane rested her eyes on something so intensely white. This was whiter even than the whitest eyes, the whitest part of a boiled egg—whiter even than the breast feathers of the pied crow.
“Kah!” she said in wonder. “What is it?”
“It is a special variety of night pot, upon which one sits to make their deposit of water or excrement.”
Buakane approached, shaking her head in disbelief. “This cannot be.”
“But it is. Watch, and I will demonstrate how to use it.”
Without saying another word, Worthless pulled her long dress off over her head. Under that dress she had been wearing a pair of white man’s shorts—but of softer material—which she removed as well. Now there was absolutely no doubt that at least she was of one color all over her body. And, just as interesting, was the fact that the white girl’s parts were in corresponding locations to Buakane’s female parts.
Finally, free of her heavy clothing, the girl hopped up onto the tall block of white and smiled. Soon Buakane heard the sound of Worthless releasing water, and a strong stream it was at that. However, not a drop went anywhere, but into the salt block. It was truly a marvel; it was something that she would make sure to relate to Paddle upon returning safely home again.
Then Worthless tore a piece of whiteness, from a roll of whiteness, that hung on the wall. This is what she used to dab the menya from her bisuna.
“We do not keep leaves inside this house,” Worthless said in her tiny voice, “so we use this instead. In the language of the Belgians it is called papier. You will learn that word soon enough.” She slid off the salt block. “Anyway, now it is your turn.”
